


It's a Wonderful Life

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is living a normal life until an angel claiming to be from another universe tells him he's needed to stop the Apocalypse. Then things get a little weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometime after God created the heavens and the Earth; seas and sky; land and plants; animals and humans, God created Lawrence, Kansas - and he'd seen that it was good.

Sort of.

Dean Winchester had never lived anywhere else - and he'd hardly ever travelled anywhere else, either. He'd gone to Kansas City twice, and once he'd been all lined up to head to California for Sam's graduation, but he'd gotten so drunk the night before that he'd missed his early flight the next morning and Sam's exasperated voice on the phone had been clear when it'd said, _"Just don't even bother to catch a later flight, Dean, okay? I'm sure I'll see you at Christmas."_

In a way, Lawrence was all he'd ever known, so it hadn't exactly been surprising that he'd grown attached to it over the years. He knew every detail of Lawrence in and out - every liquor store, every bar, every late-night diner. He knew the streets and the stores and even a good chunk of the people (owning a car garage did that, _everybody's_ car broke down at some point and Winchester Garages had a central location), and had someone asked, Dean would have been willing to say that he thought of Lawrence as _his_ , as home.

Dean's actual home was a 750 square foot apartment in downtown Lawrence, ten miles from his childhood home. It was a one-bedroom on the fifth (and top) floor, and Dean had lived there since he was nineteen years old. The apartment had seen him through millions of takeout deliveries, thousands of overslept alarms, hundreds of late-night Pay-per-View movies, twelve birthdays, and now, with a scream and an extremely well-placed smack across his face, Dean figured it was safe to say it had seen him through sixteen breakups as well.

Madeline wrenched open Dean's dresser drawer (the top right one, where Dean's underwear was usually balled up but where he had, two months ago, cleared out space for _her_ clothes) and scooped everything out of it, throwing it into a duffel bag. Dean was still reeling from the sting of the smack - goddamn, the girl had a hell of an arm on her - but when he managed to come back from it, he watched her with wide eyes, suddenly trying to grab for the bag.

"No, no no no no," he said, quickly. "Mads, no, wait a minute, don't you--" He laughed, short and nervous, "Don't you think you're kinda, uh, blowing this shit out of proportion? Just a little bit?"

Madeline yanked her bag back out of his arms, socks scattering everywhere. Her nails left bright pink trails across his skin where she'd gotten his arms, like a cat struggling out of someone's grasp. Dean hissed, letting the bag go.

"Out of proportion?" she yelled. " _Out of proportion_?!" She turned to the closet, grabbing two pairs of her shoes, waving one of the high heels in his face as she tossed the others haphazardly into the bag. "That's cute, Dean, that's real cute. I guess it's _no big deal_ when I find--" she threw the shoe, hard - it landed against Dean's shin, and Dean was sure there was going to be a bruise there in the morning, but Madeline was too busy pulling out a satin-and-lace thong from between Dean's covers, holding the offending garment up between pinched thumb-and-forefinger, "--a dirty _panty_ in your bed, left behind by-- by some stupid _whore_ who I hope is _diseased_!" She threw the underwear and it landed comically on Dean's head. He brushed it off quickly.

"Baby, baby, no," he said. "I told you, I'm sorry, things just-- just kind of happened, and I don't know-- I don't know _how_ , but I was drunk, and I wasn't thinking straight, and you were gone, and I _missed you_ , baby, I really did--"

She smacked him again. Dean's cheek cut against his teeth and the taste of blood in his mouth shut him up. She picked up her bag - it was unzipped, and with every hurried turn she made more stuff came out of it onto Dean's floor, although she didn't seem to care.

"You know," she said, growling, "Tiffany told me you were bad news. But I didn't listen to her. I thought-- _God_ , I was so _stupid!_ " She laughed suddenly, tossing her free hand up in the air. "I thought I could have a future with you, Dean. But I don't think you even have a future for yourself. So goodbye. Good luck, and goodbye, you fucking asshole."

With that, Madeline turned, her long red hair flipping across his hallway in a perfect arch Dean thought only happened in the movies. She paused only to grab her keys off the entryway table and she was gone, slamming the door after her.

It was silent for a long moment before one of the pictures Dean had hanging on the hallway wall (a photo of him and Madeline, his arm around her) fell off the wall, hitting the floor. The glass shattered.

Dean sighed, watching her go. He'd really fucked that one up. He should have said he had no idea where'd they'd come from. Maybe he should have even said they were _his_ , and broken down about how he'd had a problem with dressing in women's clothing since he was seventeen and he just couldn't _stop_.

Slowly, Dean turned, numbly moving into the kitchen and opening the fridge. He grabbed a beer and twisted the top off, taking a swig as he moved back into the living room, slumping onto the couch. He sat there, slumped over for a long while before suddenly setting the beer on the coffee table, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. Part of him wanted to cry - he figured he probably should, after losing a beautiful girl and a five-month relationship over a dumb mistake he'd made. Mom had really liked this one, too. He couldn't get the tears to come, though - all he could do is think of Sam's face from Christmas, seeing Madeline and saying to Dean, when they were alone for just a second in the living room, _"What's your problem, Dean? You have never brought the same girl to Christmas twice. You're like a giant relationship failure."_

Like Sam could understand. He'd been with Jessica since he was _eighteen_. Sam with his hot wife and beautiful house and hot-shot lawyer career in New York. Dean couldn't even hold onto a girl he'd met drunk in a bar.

Tears welled up, then, finally - but not for Madeline. Not really. Dean kicked the coffee table suddenly, in rage, and his beer spilled over, rolling off the table, amber-colored liquid pouring out all over the hardwood floor.

Fuck.

 

He'd drank so much that night that he almost didn't wake up the next morning, and when he did, the light was coming in through the blinds too bright and instead of making breakfast he threw up into the kitchen sink. Dean showered in the dark and put on sunglasses before wandering out of the house, managing to make it to the garage two hours after he's supposed to be there.

There was a customer at the counter, although Dean didn't see a car around - probably needed a tow or something. He was an average-sized guy in a business suit and a long brown trenchcoat, and Dean thought that get-up was probably hot as hell to be wearing that in the summer but paid him little mind. Scott (his co-owner, and assistant, and generally the guy who cleaned up after Dean's fuck ups) was taking care of him from inside the office, leaning out of the little booth and watching the man seriously. When Dean stepped into the office after Scott, though, it was suddenly like all eyes were on him - Scott was staring at him, looking perturbed, and even the customer had his (almost blindingly blue) eyes focused on Dean.

"Something on my face?" Dean asked.

"Beside the glasses?" Scott leveled at him, frowning. He reached up, snatching the glasses off, and Dean hissed, covering his eyes from the light like he was a fucking vampire or something. "Jesus." Scott rolled his eyes. "That's what I thought. Are you coming in with another hangover? How many times have we had this talk?"

Dean was starting to feel a little defensive honestly, because fuck, he'd had a pretty bad night last night, and _hey_ , he was the boss, okay, and what gave Scott the right to yell at him in front of a customer, anyway?

Snatching his glasses back from Scott, Dean slipped them back on.

"Okay, first, fuck you," he said, before turning his gaze on the customer and frowning. "And can I help you, buddy?" Probably not. Any sane person would be completely run off by this wonderful show of professionalism.

The customer watched him for a long, long moment. Dean was starting to feel uncomfortable under the gaze, and just when he opened his mouth to say something else, the trenchcoat man pursed his lips and then shook his head, slowly.

"No, Dean," he said. "Not yet."

With that, he turned, stepping out of the garage and down the street. The trenchcoat trailed behind him.

"What the hell," Dean gruffed, watching him leave. "What was that all about?"

"I dunno," Scott said. "I think he was selling Bibles? He kept talking about angels and demons, and something about you going to Hell and how he had to save you."

"Wow." Dean stared. "That's real thoughtful of him."

"If I were you, I'd be a little more worried about losing your _garage_ ," Scott answered, picking up his Coke can from the counter and glaring at Dean as he took a sip. "Seriously, man, what the fuck would you do without me?"

"I'm a little more fucked up over losing Mads last night, okay, Scott?" Dean countered. "So fuck me."

Scott's eyes widened and he dropped the can back to the counter. Dean always felt bad when he did this - Scott wasn't a hardass by nature. He was mostly a bleeding heart, honestly, and every time he tried to get on Dean's ass about something Dean always came up with some excuse that would send Scott into a cooing frenzy of "God Dean are you okay"s.

"Fuck, Dean," Scott said, quietly. "I'm sorry, man. That's fucked up."

Dean didn't really say anything. It was pretty fucked up, but he was still feeling kind of guilty for making Scott worry about him. "Yeah," he said, non-committal.

"You look like hell," Scott murmured, after a long pause. "You should go home for the day. I'll call you if something huge comes up."

And Dean nodded, because honestly, Dean didn't want to be there, and he knew that within an hour Scott was going to have lunch and the smell of food was probably going to make him throw up again.

 

When he got home, Trenchcoat Zealot was sitting outside his apartment door.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks before slowly exhaling, pulling his keys from his pocket. He didn't know what to think, but apparently he had a crazy religious stalker, and that was really the last thing he needed right now.

"Okay, buddy," he said, approaching the door. "Madeline probably sent you, right? So either chew me out or throw a punch, but get it over with, because I've got a date with an empty bed and a toilet bowl. And probably not in that order."

He wasn't sure if he actually believed that Madeline's sent Trenchcoat Zealot or not - she had never been particularly religious that _he_ could remember, but the guy could be a crazy brother or an eccentric uncle. Something like that. The timing was just too perfect, and cheating wasn't exactly Christian from what little of that stuff he knew. His mother had always said that angels were watching over him, but that was basically the extent of his religious tutelage. It kind of seemed to him that Christianity hated everything fun.

The man rose to his feet, but he didn't do any of the normal things people do when they get up from standing - he didn't smooth his clothes, or brush off his ass, or grunt, or anything. He just stood, stiff and robotic, and Dean stared at him, beginning to realize that he was on the fifth floor inside his building, that nobody was around, and that nobody would hear him if this guy was planning on an attack.

Dean felt foolish, but he steeled himself, he shoulders stiffening. When Trenchcoat Zealot met his gaze, Dean couldn't help but notice once again how unbelievably blue his eyes were.

 _This is probably the last thing I'm going to think before I die,_ Dean mused.

Instead, the man only watched him with a level, serious gaze.

"Hello, Dean," he said. His voice was almost comically low, gravelly and unnatural, and Dean stood there for a minute, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Nothing happened.

"Uh huh." Dean sighed, brushing past the guy and beginning to unlock his door. "Yeah, hi. I'm going to bed now."

"No," the man said, suddenly. "You are going to listen to me."

Dean stared at him, eyes widening. "Uh, no. Pretty sure I'm going to bed. Goodnight." He turned, closing the door in the guy's face and locking it behind him.

 _Jesus._

Turning into the living room, Dean slipped off his sunglasses, sighing. God, he needed to get back to bed and spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for himself. He moved to step towards the kitchen when suddenly--

"Dean, please. We need to talk."

Trenchcoat Zealot was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, right in front of Dean. Dean screamed like a little girl and tried to step back, but he misstepped and fell back on his ass. The man stared down at him, his expression scrunched together as if he were watching something that made very little sense, slowly tilting his head to the side. Dean scrambled away, gasping.

"How did you-- how the _hell_ \-- you just-- you just _Batmaned_ into here, how the hell did you--"

"My apologies," the man said. He casts his eyes down to the floor, and it was the sorriest Dean had ever seen anyone look - like the man just accidentally ran over Dean's puppy and nothing he could say would every bring it back. For a wild, bizarre moment, Dean felt like _he_ was the one who should apologize - until he remembered that this was _his_ house, and that this crazy guy had just bamfed in here like _Nightcrawler_ with his creepy voice and his freaky eyes and his "I'm an overworked white collar slave" get-up. But he continued, and Dean was relieved from the responsibility of having to say anything. "I... forgot momentarily that you are not accustomed to my behavior."

"Yeah, no," Dean said, slowly. "Not exactly 'accustomed' to people teleporting into my personal space." His eyes darted around for the nearest phone and he wondered if he could call the cops before Trenchcoat Zealot did whatever he came here for. "Listen, uh, I don't really have any jewelry or anything, but there's some cash stashed away in the sock drawer. Two thousand. You can have it."

The man gave him that look again - the look of puzzled bewilderment complete with headtilt before slowly shaking his head.

"No, Dean," he said. "I don't want your money." He reached out his hand, instead, and Dean hesitated, but he took it. Trenchcoat Zealot pulled him up to his feet, but he didn't immediately let go of his hand - Dean had to pointedly clear his throat, and when that didn't work, wrench his hand out of the man's impossibly strong grasp and take a step back, frowning.

Okay, so if he didn't want money, what could he--

Dean stopped suddenly, staring at him.

"Okay, dude, seriously, no."

TZ just stared. "Dean, please take a seat and listen to me. I have a very serious proposal I have to bring to you."

Dean didn't move. He didn't want to. He didn't know _how_ to. This was all too much, and too weird, and his head was _killing_ him. When he didn't move, a chair suddenly pulled out from his kitchen table and moved across the room, and Dean felt himself forcibly shoved down into it with a shout. He couldn't stand up. He was forced to just watch as TZ stood awkwardly stiff in his kitchen, his eyes hard on him.

"How the hell," Dean breathed, "did you just do that."

"Dean, please be very quiet and listen to me. Right now, there is a war being waged between Heaven and Hell. The Apocalypse is coming, and Lucifer has descended on Earth, causing chaos and destruction. I am Castiel, an Angel of the Lord. I have come to this world to--"

"Ohhhhhh my God," Dean said, slowly. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Castiel - if that was his name - stared at Dean pointedly.

Dean laughed suddenly, shaking his head. "Okay," he said. "Okay. This is all a big funny joke. Did Scott put you up to this? You two talkin' about it this morning? Very funny. Real hilarious."

"Dean," Castiel said, "there is nothing funny about this."

Dean only laughed again. "Right. Gotchya. You're a _big scary angel_ and, oh no! The Apocalypse is happening! Lucifer is walking the Earth! I'm so scared!" He shook his head. "Really. Really great. Kind of weird, but Scott is kind of weird."

Castiel only stared at him. Finally, "This is not a moment for levity."

"And you're an angel." Dean stared right back. "Buddy, even if there _was_ such a thing, and the Apocalypse _was_ happening, and Lucifer _was_ walking the Earth, why the hell would any angels come to _me_?"

Castiel's gaze softened slightly. "...You don't understand your importance, no matter what world you're from," he said. "I can't prove that to you. You must discover it for yourself. But I can..."

He paused, picking up the sunglasses from where Dean had set them down and gently slipping them onto the man's face. Dean stared through them, the light in the kitchen so dim he almost couldn't see anything at all. Only Castiel's outline. Dean wondered what the hell he was supposed to be seeing and at the same time realized that he couldn't seem to move from the chair, and he didn't like either though too much - until, suddenly, Castiel's form seemed to flex and two clear bursts of light exploded from his shoulders, filling Dean's kitchen up with light. A glass on the counter shattered. Dean felt heat licking against his skin like he was standing too close to a bonfire, and he gasped, squinting his eyes even through the glasses. The light died out just as quickly as it had come, and Dean's arms were suddenly freed. He reached up, pulling the glasses from the bridge of his nose, dropping them to the floor. Castiel was standing before him, gasping for breath, and on either side of him shadowed outlines of wings were painted across Dean's kitchen walls.

"Now," Castiel gasped, quietly, "do you believe?"

Dean's eyes hurt like a _bitch_ \- he had the feeling that sunglasses weren't exactly the best things to protect him from that, and hell, he probably wasn't supposed to see that at all, but--

 _Holy shit._ Just, _holy. Shit._

He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Castiel was giving him that _look_ again. Dean stood from the chair quickly, watching Castiel, feeling more and more like he was in some crappy SciFi (or "SyFy" or however they were trying to spell it these days to make themselves look more "cool" and "hip") TV movie about the end of the world. If Castiel tried to tell him that aliens were involved, Dean was seriously _out_.

"Okay," Dean said, throwing his arms up in the air. "Okay, fine, great. You're-- you're obviously, uh, something. Fine, let's even say you're an angel. You mind telling me exactly what it is that you want with me? Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm not Moral Orel here."

Castiel stared at him. Dean was really starting to get sick of that.

"It's a, uh, show on Adult Swim, about this Christian-- you know what? Never mind." Dean raked a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. "Just-- you're in my house, so just tell me what the hell's goin' on so I can get some rest."

Slowly nodding, Castiel moved across the room. He wasn't holding himself up as straight as he had been before - had his light show really taken that much out of him? Passing to the kitchen table, the angel took a seat, and Dean had to marvel at how completely bizarre this all was.

"You, uh," Dean asked, before Castiel could speak, "you want some coffee?"

"...No, thank you," Castiel said at length. He slowly reached into his pocket, producing a worn-looking piece of paper, which he squinted at. It was as if he was reading off a note card. This guy had to be the most disorganized angel ever if he couldn't get a speech to a human out right without needing a few notes. Where was the booming voice? The flocks of sheep? The glowing stars? After a moment, Castiel finally cleared his throat. " _Dean,_ " he said, obviously reading straight off the card, " _have you ever seen the movie 'It's a Wonderful Life'._ " The sentence had obviously been a question, but Castiel hadn't changed the inflection in his voice. After a short pause, he added, "...Question mark," and looked up at Dean expectantly.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean asked. Castiel quickly scanned the paper, presumably looking for how he was supposed to respond to this situation. After flipping it over and finding nothing, he looked up at Dean, completely straight-faced.

"No, I am not." A pause. "Have you?"

"Unfortunately," Dean grumbled. Worst two hours of his life. It had been some Christmas, and it had been on TV, and some girl had wanted him to watch it. God.

"Okay." Castiel turned his attention back to the paper, reading again. " _In the movie, an angel comes to Jimmy Stewart and shows him an alternate reality._ " Castiel blinked, as if interested. "I didn't know that."

With a sigh of frustration, Dean reached over, grabbing the paper out of Castiel's hand and turning, reading it for himself.

 _Dean, have you ever seen the movie 'It's a Wonderful Life'? In the movie, an angel comes to Jimmy Stewart and shows him an alternate reality. This may be hard to believe, but alternate realities really do exist, and you're living in one while I'm living in the other. I came here because the world I come from needs your help to stop the Apocalypse. I have to take you back with me so you can help save the lives of the entire planet._

Dean stared at the paper, his mouth dry. The handwriting looked familiar, and it had only taken a few seconds, but Dean realized that it was Sam's.

"Uh," Dean said, finally. Castiel stood from his chair, looking worried.

"I was supposed to read that to you," he explained. "Sam was very adamant about it."

Dean shook his head. "Sam is-- Sam is a fucking copyright infringement lawyer in New York," he said. "He doesn't even _believe_ in God--"

"That's the Sam in this world," Castiel explained, patiently. "But the Sam where I am from is different."

Dean only stared - at Castiel, at the paper, at his kitchen's linoleum floor. His head was pounding, and none of this was helping at all. "How different?" he said, finally. "How different is everything?"

Castiel hesitated. "Maybe it would be best if you saw that for yourself."

"Why do you even need me?" Dean argued. "What about the 'me' in that world? What the hell happened to him?"

Castiel's gaze moved to the floor, reverent and sad. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened with that look. Dean slowly felt horror creeping in.

"Oh, _great_ ," he growled, shaking his head. "I die, so you're just gonna go ahead and replace me? How many Deans have you gone through, huh? I'm just some kind of goddamn--"

Castiel's fingers were around his throat before Dean could even finish his sentence, and Dean choked, gasping for air.

" _Never_ ," Castiel growled, his fingers tightening, "say that. You have _no idea_ what Sam and I have been through. We don't have a choice. We have to have you. You're the only one who can stop it. Seeing you again is painful enough. We're not happy about this either."

When he released, Dean fell to his knees on the kitchen floor, coughing. Castiel stood there unmoving above him.

"Please, Dean," Castiel said, finally. "Our world needs you."

Dean sat there on the kitchen floor for what seemed like an eternity. He thought about a lot of things - about Sam, who thought of Dean as a failure; about Scott, who probably thought Dean was a worthless drunk; about Madeline, who'd shouted _"I don't think you even have a future for yourself"_.

And Castiel. Castiel, who'd said he was _needed_ somewhere. Honest-to-God, life-and-death _needed_.

When Castiel stuck out his hand to help Dean off the floor, Dean took it.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wasn't sure how it had happened, but with two fingers pressed against his forehead, Castiel had taken him out of Dean's messy, drab kitchen - out of Lawrence, Kansas; out of his "universe" entirely - and onto a scrap yard.

It was dusk - there were still faint strips of orange and gold and pink on the horizon, but most of the sky was a dark blue, settling into night as the stars came out to play. The sky was clear here - Dean could look up at see hundreds of them already, a stark contrast to the clutter and mess of the scrap yard around him. There were hundreds of cars, some piled up on each other, all in various states of completion and decay, and Dean felt tired just looking at them. It was like looking at a pile of undone work.

At the far end of the yard was a small house, and outside sat a car Dean recognized - a shiny black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. It was his... but he'd left his in the garage of the apartment building back home, hadn't he?

...It was the other Dean's, he realized, and his stomach did a funny sort of flip.

"Where are we?" he asked, his mouth drying.

"South Dakota," Castiel informed him. "This is the home of Robert Singer."

When Dean didn't show any familiarity, Castiel frowned.

"He was a friend of your father's. He's also a hunter." Castiel began to cross the yard, passing Dean and moving towards the house. "He and Sam should be inside."

Dean did the math in his head as he reluctantly followed. Castiel had used past tense when he'd said "was a friend", but if this Robert Singer was inside, it meant John Winchester was the dead one.

No matter what universe they were in, his father was dead, it seemed. Dean didn't like that at all. Was it because of this "apocalypse", because of these angels? How had their family gotten mixed up in any of this at all?

Dean stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the headache he was still nursing. All of this and a hangover was way too much to deal with.

As they approached the house, the door slowly opened before Dean could even climb the steps to the porch. Castiel was already on them, and he stopped at the top stair, watching the person inside carefully.

"Everything go okay?" a voice asked, slowly. Dean recognized it. It was Sam's.

"Yes," Castiel said. "I've brought him back with me."

Dean moved up the first stair fast enough to see Sam suck in a breath, his expression pained. Sam didn't look like the Sam Dean knew - he was wearing a purple and blue plaid button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and worn jeans - the kind that had been worn in by years of hard work and lots of love, not the douchey pre-worn, pre-ripped kind kids were buying in stores these days. His hair was longer, untrimmed, and he was tanned and muscular. He looked... different, but he was still Sam.

When their eyes met, Dean's were full of curiosity, and wonder, and apprehension. Sam's were just full of tears.

"Uh, hey," Sam said, slowly, extending his arm. "You, you know who I am already, but- but not really, so I thought I should--" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "I'm Sam."

"Yeah," Dean said, taking his hand, shaking it. Sam had a hell of a grip. "I'm... I'm Dean."

"You three gonna come inside or are you gonna play tea party out on the porch?" someone shouted from inside.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said. He smiled for just a flicker of a second before it was gone again. Even while it was there, it hadn't looked genuine. "We should all come in." He waved the pair back into the house. Castiel stepped in, but Dean just stood there for a moment, breathing.

In reality, he was long past the point of no return, but something in his mind told him that once he'd stepped over this threshold and into the house beyond, he was crossing a line. He wasn't Dean Winchester, the mechanic with too many girlfriends and a drinking problem any more. He was going to be Dean Winchester, the man who had to stop the Apocalypse, who had to take over for the one who should be here and was already dead.

Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped into the house. It was a cluttered mess - there were books and loose papers stacked up on every available surface. Dean trailed behind, following Castiel past the entranceway and into the kitchen, where two people already sat at a small table with a plastic-covered-cloth red and white chequered tablecloth. There was food at the table, but it didn't look touched, and Dean felt his nausea coming back. Somehow, he didn't think "Hey guys, nice to meet you and sorry about the whole Apocalypse thing, but I really need a nap" was gonna fly, so he didn't say anything, just standing there awkwardly beside Castiel in the kitchen.

Sam took a seat across from an older-looking man sitting beside a very well-dressed younger man. The older man looked frazzled, stressed, and torn apart - the corners of his eyes were red like he'd been crying recently, and the bags under his eyes made it clear he hadn't slept in a while. The younger man, however, surveyed Dean boredly, only mildly interested and certainly hardly invested. He seemed pretty out-of-place.

"I've returned," Castiel said after a moment.

"Yes," the well-dressed man said. He had a heavy British accent. _That_ was out-of-place in South Dakota, no doubt about that. "We can all see that, Castiel."

Castiel bristled.

"So," Sam said, suddenly. "We need to, uh, we need to get Dean up to speed, first of all."

"That would be nice," Dean said. The moment the words were out of his lips he wished he'd stayed quiet. Everybody in the room turned to stare at him and Dean felt his nausea roaring through him.

"I think he's going to throw up," the Brit commented. "Somebody get him a bowl."

"I'm not going to throw up," Dean argued. He already didn't like this guy. Dean roughly pulled out the chair next to Sam and sat down. He could feel Sam tense beside him, and it only served to piss him off more. "Look. You guys brought _me_ here, alright? So either tell me what I need to do or I'm outta here." He glanced back to where Castiel was still standing awkwardly behind him. "And sit the hell down, Castiel, _jesus._ "

Sam stared at him. "Okay, for one, it's Cas."

'Cas' was taking Dean's cue, slowly pulling a chair out and sitting between Dean and the well-dressed Brit.

"For two," Sam continued, "you, uh--" His gaze moved to Castiel, looking panicked. "Dude, seriously? You didn't tell him?"

"I read the card," Castiel said, slowly.

"Oh, jesus." Sam stared at the table, horrified.

"Tell me what?" Dean asked, suddenly, panicked.

"Alright, everybody, shut up," the older man said, suddenly. Dean recognized the voice as the same one who'd yelled about tea parties earlier, and he guessed this was probably Robert Singer. "You all are gonna give me a goddamn headache." He levelled his gaze on Dean, slowly. "I'm Bobby Singer. And I'm sorry for these two lumpheads." He gestured towards Sam and Castiel. "This is my place, and for now, I guess it's kinda yours, too. Make yourself at home. Beer's in the fridge."

"Uh, no thanks," Dean said, numbly. "Already got a hangover."

"Are we all going 'round and introducing ourselves, then?" the Brit asked. He leaned forward in his seat, extending his hand. "I'm Crowley." Dean took it, shaking it. "Oh," the man added, as if in afterthought, "and I'm a demon."

Dean suddenly yanked his hand away, as if burned. He turned his gaze towards the other three at the table. "What the hell?!" he cried. "Seriously? We have a goddamn _demon_ on our side?"

"Oh, calm down," Crowley said, looking rather amused. "Don't get your- what is it? Panties in a bunch?"

"Alright, that's enough," Bobby said with a sigh. "We don't have time to be screwin' around. We need to teach Dean all the basics - basically, we gotta cram thirty years of huntin' experience down his throat in- what, a week?"

"If that," Sam said, quietly.

"Okay," Dean said, suddenly. "Here's what I don't get. What the hell does shooting Bambi or whatever have to do with the Apocalypse?"

The room was silent for so long after Dean was finished that Dean was certain he'd said something really wrong. Finally, Sam let out a slow, long breath, and Crowley smirked, moving to stand from the table.

" _Well,_ " he said, "as riveting as this has been, it looks like you lot have your work cut out for you. I'll be back in a few days."

Before Dean could blink, Crowley was gone. Castiel frowned.

"Well," Sam said, slowly. "I, uh, I think we should probably start this all on a full-night's rest." He cast a glance out the kitchen window, where night had fully set in. "Cas, you mind, uh, showing Dean where he can sleep?"

"Of course." Castiel stood from his chair and Dean awkwardly stood, too.

"I say something wrong?" he asked. Bobby just shook his head.

"We got a long way to go," he said, getting out of his chair. "There's bacon in the fridge for morning. For now, get some rest."

 

Somewhere to sleep turned out to be a tiny upstairs room that Dean was almost _certain_ had once been a closet - there was room enough for a full bed that touched the wall at three sides. The other side had a spare two and a half feet of room before ending at a door.

"Good thing I'm not claustrophobic," Dean noted, grunting. Kind of hard to be when he spent a good portion of his time on a roll cart directly underneath people's cars.

Castiel came in the room right after Dean, shutting the door behind him. Dean blinked, turning towards the man. With the size of the room, there was hardly enough space to breathe - the room wasn't designed for two people to coexist peacefully.

"Uh," Dean said. "Okay. So, uh, I'll come down in the morning, then." It was the nicest way of saying "get out" he could think of. Castiel watched him for a moment - his stare was uncomfortable to say the least. Dean felt like Castiel was picking through every piece of him, seeing everything that was different from the _other_ Dean and judging it all.

It wasn't the greatest feeling.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, this time a bit more forcefully. "So. Go on. Goodnight."

Castiel frowned. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "Goodnight, Dean." He hesitated - it looked like he wanted to say more. Finally, he only added, "Please, get good rest. Tomorrow will be a very full day."

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Okay." His head was pounding. He still felt sick - from the hangover, from the realization of everything he was and everything he was supposed to do, from the teleporting, from the look Sam had given him downstairs - shit, it could be from any number of things, and none of them were things Dean wanted to think about.

Castiel turned, leaving the room, and Dean latched the door and popped the cheap lock before shedding his button-up, t-shirt, and jeans and falling into bed.

As Dean drifted to sleep, there was a pressure building in his head - something that felt out-of-place and wrong, but he couldn't register what it was.


End file.
